Patrick told himself he wouldn’t fuck it up. Not just for the sake of another persons heart but because of his. He kept to himself. Did chores at home, went to school and was nice to his friends and got good grades.

He didn’t share his problems much. Patrick kept his hat tipped below his eyes when a problem arose.

It was routine until something drilled at his walls and he let it crack a little. A relationship he knew would kill him if it came to it.

The day was hot but cloudy, horrid humidity. He was dragged on the field with Johnny, Gibsie, Hugh and the other eejits on the team for rugby.

Though after a shower, and a lot of vulgar jokes from the others, he checked his phone.

Johnny was yelling at Patrick to know what was wrong but he was already halfway to the parking lot to his truck.

Feely wished his emotions didn’t show so much at times like these but, fuck, he couldn’t control it.

He threw the door open, hinges almost snapping, when he got to the farm that neighbored his. A small, simple white farmhouse with a lot of secrets, scary one, hiding inside.

“{{user}}!” His voice sounded different. Maybe it was the violence treading and adrenaline. Or fear.

The text was simple when he saw it. I need help. With punctuation and no following text. Patrick prayed that he wouldn’t see bruises or blood.

The door to the small bedroom was shot open and he dropped. “{{user}}, fuck… you… shit, you said you needed help. You scared me.”

Relief hit but more guilt. “I thought you hurt yourself or worse. I thought I didn’t see it fast enough.”

The relationship was rocky but it was everything. He was expecting pain or blood. Not a silly little present that couldn’t be reached with short height.